Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

9.

Monday, February 22

”I should buy a boat,” I said, looking out of the meeting room’s big bay windows onto the King Point Marina. Loads of little ships were bobbing up and down like Ryan Jack’s CA.

”What have you been doing all day?” said Emma.

”Just stuff,” I said, which was the God’s honest truth. ”Do you think they’re called bay windows because they let you see the bay?”

”It’s the only explanation that makes sense.” She poked me. ”Seriously, what were you doing?”

I glanced at the space between a projector screen and a little desk, where I had a kit bag containing a few of the ’Chester at Wembley’ scarves. ”Just making sure I’m taking the match seriously.”

Emma gave me a suspicious look. ”You’re in trouble for putting out the reserves on Saturday. If anything, you’re taking tomorrow too seriously.”

My pulse quickened a little, but I got on top of it pretty fast. ”I was thinking the same thing, but you know what this would mean. Wembley. It’s, you know, big. I feel a responsibility to the players, the club, the fans.”

She rubbed my back and looked into my eyes. ”Just don’t let the weight of responsibility crush you.”

I stood a little taller, stuck my chest out. ”I can take it.”

She looked worried, but only for a moment. ”Course you can. That’s why I let you carry my suitcase.”

”We really need to talk about that,” I said. Somehow she had been accumulating stuff during the Scandinavian trip - clothes, souvenirs, more clothes - until the suitcase had got so full Briggy said it was likely to explode in the plane’s hold and the pilot would have to make a belly-flop landing on the North Sea. Of course, the airline had used Emma’s newfound addiction to Scandi-swag to extort our hard-earned savings from us - I’d had smaller fines from UEFA than from the airline. ”I’d rather sell Wibbers to Liverpool than pay an excess baggage fee ever again. I’m serious.” The scene at the airport had riled me all the way up to the point that Briggy had to push me away from the counter.

”Om,” said Emma.

”Om,” I said, pinching my fingers together. I motioned towards the rows of chairs, which were starting to fill with players. They had been on a bus for six hours and I had given them an hour to unwind before my presentation. ”Want to stay for my talk? Some tactics chat to start, then we’ve got a special guest. I want to distract the lads because they’re more nervous than I’ve ever seen them.” Almost the entire squad’s Morale was fluctuating non-stop. Big game nerves.

”This guest. Is it anyone famous?”

”No, just a fan.”

”Um, no thanks. Briggy’s gonna bodyguard me while I walk around the docks whistling at sailors.”

”Are you gonna try to get the goss on who she slept with?”

”Of course not. It’s none of my business.” Emma dragged her finger along the window frame. ”If she brings it up on her own, I won’t stop her.”

”Are you having dinner with us?”

”Free scran?” she said. ”Wouldn’t miss it. Got rinsed on the baggage fees, didn’t I? Need to be thrifty.”

As she said that, we both did the same sweep of the room, taking in the beautiful moulded ceiling, tasteful lighting, and regal wallpaper. ”Thrifty,” I agreed, and we smiled at each other.

”How is Wes Hayward doing?” she asked, which wasn’t as insanely random as it sounded. We were in the Hayward Room at the luxurious Duke of Cornwall Hotel, with 36 seats laid out in the ’classroom style’. The Millburn Suite would have been better for our needs but it didn’t have a view and I hadn’t made a three hundred thousand pound profit training and selling a player called Millburn.

”He’s doing well. The Crawley fans get frustrated with him but they know he’s their best chance of creating something in tight games.” It was my job to move players out of the club but it wasn’t always easy, especially when the guy had something special to contribute on the pitch. ”I miss his pace. And Pascal’s intelligence. Duggers’ dribbliness.”

”Is that a word?”

”Footballing jargon.” More players came in. ”All right, I need to get into the headspace. This is going to be one of the most important talks I’ve ever had with this group. Can’t fuck it up. Got to get every detail right.” I nodded a few times. ”Every detail.”

Emma gave me one last, wary look, nearly said something, but headed off.

***

Including me, we had brought 20 players down from Chester. The first eleven, who had been told they would start, plus seven of the guys who had played against Mansfield at the weekend. They would be on the bench. We had also brought Roddy Jones and Hamish for the experience, but couldn’t bring more because while traveling down a day early would give us the best chance of a win, the rooms were bloody expensive.

This luxury hotel would be followed by a three-day stay at The Vale in Glamorgan (with the entire squad). All told, the Welsh leg would cost another thirty grand.

Thrifty? No, but if we won at Home Park and got through to the Vans Trophy final, MD wouldn’t ever mention the cost again. If we lost the semi-final immediately after burning so much cash and after my failure to secure any transfer deals on what looked to some outsiders like a lovely mid-season holiday, things could get -

”Sticky!” I said, reaching out to hug our goalkeeping coach. ”You were mint on Saturday. Brilliant. Goalkeeper, sweeper, striker. Is there nothing this man can’t do?”

The Yorkshireman grunted in the affirmative. ”Can’t find the key to me shed.”

”It’s always in the last place you look,” I said, parroting one of my mum’s favourite phrases.

Mum. If all went well, I would walk onto the sun-drenched Wembley pitch in front of 80,000 people and millions on TV. She wouldn’t know. I felt dark clouds filling up my mind. Sticky said, ”Did you find any players?”

”Yeah, some good ones. Have you ever worked with a national team goalie?”

He got interested. ”No.”

I clasped him on the arm. ”Stick around, Sticky.”

”I’m not going anywhere.”

That was a ray of sunshine blasting through the encroaching darkness. I quickly replayed the conversation in my head. ”I’m gonna send the Brig to your place with a metal detector, all right?”

He nodded, not sure if I was joking, and went to an alcove where the hotel had set up a drinks table. I went to get a bottle of still water and looked around the room. All present and correct. I moved our tactics board a little more to the side and checked I had enough markers.

”All right, lads,” I said. ”Settle down. This is important. This is big. Get your game face on.”

My eyes swept around the room and saw a lot of serious faces. Sandra, Physio Dean, Livia, the Brig, the other coaches and physios were in a bunch at the back. Christian Fierce was ready for action and looked like he had been for some time. Zach Green, Wibbers, Youngster, Magnus Evergreen, Dazza: intense, hard, fidgety. Joel Reid, our new signing, hadn’t experienced one of these presentations before. I hoped he didn’t find it too depressing.

I nodded a few times, making sure I was in a suitably sombre state of mind. Thinking about my mum helped.

”Let’s do this,” I said, speaking mainly to myself.

***

The first thing I did was to congratulate the players who had played on Saturday. ”You were all brilliant,” I said. ”I honestly couldn’t be happier with how you conducted yourself. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t dwell on that match because our entire season comes down to what happens tomorrow. The Vans Trophy semi-final with a trip to the home of football on the line. It’s monumental. It’s titanic. It’s so titanic I nearly used that movie as the theme, but the problem is some people have hearts that will not go on.”

I frowned.

”That was terrible. What I mean is two things. It’s possible some of you won’t be at the club this time next season. Don’t panic! I’m not scheming to sell any of you, but that’s life, isn’t it? Especially in this industry. We’re in a great position financially and we don’t need to sell, and you’ve all got room to grow as players. The squad’s a bit too big but I’m seriously tempted to keep all of you. Especially because I know for a fact you are happy to work for low wages.” That got some laughs. ”Fuck! Why am I doing jokes? I’m trying to show how serious the match is. Look, let’s just say there isn’t anyone in this room who’s guaranteed to be here next season and that means this could be the closest they get to appearing at Wembley. So we need to be serious.”

I drank some of my water, put the bottle on the desk, and went to the kit bag. I brought out a Chester Going to Wembley scarf.

”It doesn’t look like it, but this is a half-and-half scarf. Not in the usual sense, where it’s Chester on one half and Man United on the other. No, this is Schrödinger’s Scarf. Hey, Hamish, why do you look confused? Don’t you know that reference?”

Hamish shook his head, blushing slightly under the weight of all the stares he was getting.

I tutted. ”You need a working knowledge of quantum physics to make it as a footballer, mate. Come on.” I let out a mock sigh, and realised I was being funny again. I concentrated. ”It’s Schrödinger’s Scarf because until the match is played, we don’t know what it is. Is it a symbol of joy and happiness? Or is it a sarcastic waste of the club’s money?”

Roddy whispered something to Hamish, who blurted out, ”It’s both.”

I smiled; he was trying. ”It’s both until we open the box.”

The young Scot was exasperated now. He waved his hands around, encompassing the entire front of the room. ”What box?!”

The group was laughing pretty hard. Wibbers turned and said something like, ”We’ll explain it later.”

Gabby said, ”Also to me.” Wibbers fist-bumped him.

I steepled my fingers together and looked at the ceiling until I was centred. Youngster misinterpreted the gesture. ”Would you like me to lead us in prayer, Mr. Best?”

”Yeah, silent prayer, please. You crack on with that while I’m, you know, doing my presentation. Cool?”

He grinned. ”Yes, cool.”

”Okay,” I said, stepping towards the tactics board. All the magnets had been pushed to one side. ”We all get the idea. Big match. Important. Serious.” I picked up a black marker and popped the top off. ”I’ve been thinking about positional play and how we coach it. Painting white lines on a training pitch, half-spaces, zone 14, all that crap. Why do we divide the pitch into 20 zones? Because some Dutch guy did it in the 60s when he was stoned, probably, citation needed, and it proved to be incredibly effective.” I tapped the marker against my forehead while I frowned. ”No-one has ever come up with a better system.”

”What about Relationism?” said Wibbers.

”That’s on the other end of the spectrum, isn’t it? They’re two sides of the same coin. I’m talking about one side of the coin - how do we see that more clearly? I want to see into every groove, every blemish, every atom of pocket fluff. I’ve been thinking about this for ages, wondering what the next evolution of positional play could look like, and fucking hell, men, I only found it in Norway!”

There was an excited murmur. The lads sat up straighter, leaned forward.

”What they do,” I said, as I started to draw vertical lines. ”Is they don’t split the pitch into 20 zones. What’s better than 20? Any number,” I said, pausing my sketching to stand dramatically, ”that is higher than 20! You’re thinking 22, 24, but no. They do one thousand zones.”

”A thousand?” said Sandra, in disbelief.

”I know, it’s next level. This is what’s gonna propel us to a higher plane. So... hang on, let me do these lines. You need a hundred horizontal and a hundred vertical.” The group watched as I sketched line after line. I thought I saw Adam Summerhays say ’Wouldn’t that be ten thousand?’ but I didn’t have time to think about it. ”Um... this board is too small and the lines are too thick so they’re all blending into each other. Try to use your imagination. So what you do is, um...” I moved a magnet into the approximate position of the right-sided centre back in a back three. ”This is Zach. He’s in zone, er...” I counted. ”Twenty dash... thirty. Ish.”

Zach was bemused. ”Wouldn’t that be more like... twenty dash seventy?”

”Ah, no,” I said, excited. ”This method was co-developed by a Swede and a Norwegian. In Sweden, they read from left to right but in Norway it’s the opposite, so the horizontal axis goes up from 1 to a hundred, but the... no, wait, what did I say? I meant vertical. And the horizontal axis is inverted, so the numbers go backwards. It’s actually easy when you get used to it.”

Zach was even more perplexed. ”So the square in the bottom-left isn’t one dash one, it’s one dash one hundred? And the top-right is one hundred dash one?”

I smiled. ”Wow, you picked it up even faster than me! I knew this would be worth learning. So back to Zach as he controls the ball on square twenty dash thirty. He should have two forward passing options, right?” I put a magnet in the centre circle, and one in the right wing back slot. ”So Zach would shout, um... fifty-two dash forty-nine incoming! And that guy would reply, ’Not here, danger! Go three dash - no, hang on. Er... thirty-eight dash three.”

There was much dismay in the group, and Sandra cried out, ”Max, what the hell are you talking about?”

”I’m - ” I spluttered, stretching both palms to the tactics board, unable to believe they weren’t picking it up fast, annoyed that they didn’t seem to like what I was offering. ”This is the future, guys! We need to learn this! It could give us an edge.”

Sandra was not happy but she had better diplomatic skills than most. ”Maybe we could think about it over the next few weeks. Try it a few times in training. Maybe with one of the youth teams. I don’t think it will help us for the match tomorrow.”

I tutted and looked up. Annoyed, I put the lid back on the marker and tossed it towards the bottom of the tactics board. It hit the holder but bounced away. ”Fine. Let’s go straight to the special guest.” I walked away from the tactics board, towards the desk. The air in the room was heavy with apprehension. So much tension, and I was only adding to it. I nudged an item on the desk. ”Think about the half-and-half scarf, right? Remember that we’re doing this for the fans. The goal is to give them a day they’ll never forget. They’ll hang these scarves up in their living rooms, won’t they? That’s what it’s all about. So I’ve got an old fan to come and talk to us so that we really get a sense of how much it will mean. Okay? It’s not going to be the most exciting twenty minutes but please be polite. No yawning, Youngster.”

He looked shocked. ”I would not!”

”You yawn in church. Kisi told me. All, right, send in the fan!”

At the back of the room, a door opened, and Dylan, a rifleman in the Third Welsh Regiment, pushed a wheelchair in which sat an old man. ”Hiyas,” said Dylan, who was delighted to have been invited down to the luxury hotel.

”Why have you got two bodyguards on this trip?” said Peter Bauer, from the back.

”Um... I’ve been saying Plymouth Argyle wrong in the interviews leading up to this game. I’ve been doing a soft J like in Jennifer. Ar-jile. I thought it was a good jape but the locals are not enjoying it. Okay, everyone, a quiet round of applause for our lifelong fan, Mikey.”

The players clapped as Dylan pushed the guy next to my table, but my request that the applause be quiet made everyone hesitate. Youngster’s hands were moving fast but not actually touching.

Mikey looked around 70 and his moustache gave the impression of having been around for well over 65 of those years. He was wearing a flat cap, his cheeks were ruddy, and he was in typical old boy gear - a wrinkled shirt, tie, cardigan, and a knitted vest. ”Evening,” he wheezed, as he was set into place.

With me behind the desk, holding some cards, and Mikey on a chair next to me, it looked very much like a talk show. ”Mikey,” I said, smiling insincerely. ”How are you doing today?”

”Mustn’t grumble,” he grumbled.

”We’re all pleased you made it down here.”

”Down?” he said, getting slightly animated. ”It’s the second floor, isn’t it?”

”It is the second floor, that’s right,” I said, impressed. ”I’m glad you’re still sharp. Some of the old boys I meet, well, you know.”

”They put me in a home,” said Mikey, sourly. ”Binned me off into some ghoulish camp.”

”Fuck,” I said.

”They had one of those cats.”

”What cats?”

”They sense when someone’s about to cross to the other side. The nurses - terrible bunch, not a looker among them - used to phone the relatives when the cat settled down for the night. You’d better get here, they used to say. While you still can.”

I glanced at the audience. Youngster was smiling in an encouraging way, but most were horrified. How had I lost control of this interview already? ”That’s - ”

”What they didn’t tell the relatives,” said Mikey, sitting up a fraction and jabbing his boney finger at me, ”was that it was the bloody cat that did it!”

”Sorry, I don’t quite - ”

”Imagine it, boy! You’re lying there, having a well-earned kip, not a looker in the whole place, then this bloody evil feline starts eating you!”

”What?”

”Didn’t have the decency to wait for them to pop off, the little shit. Got itself nice and cosy, nice old spinster with a dicky heart, it’s all nice and quiet, looks around, little test nibble. Old girl wakes up to find half her ear gone. No wonder they croaked!”

I sipped some water. ”Okay, maybe let’s talk about football.”

Mikey relaxed back into his wheelchair and assumed a beatific expression. ”I do love football.”

”Now, if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve been around a while.”

He jabbed at me with his finger. ”I’m seventy-two and two-thirds.”

I gestured to my audience. ”They do like accurate numbers.”

”Who are you winking at?”

”Listen,” I said, ”you must have seen some great players in your time. Did you ever see George Best?”

”I would often go to the pub with George Best,” declared Mikey. I frowned, while almost everyone in the room turned to their neighbour with a face that meant, ’the fuck?’ Best was one of the greatest players of all time. Why would he hang out with a rando from Chester?

”Well... what? How? He would have been in Manchester most of his life, I reckon.”

”George Best used to knock on my front door every Monday at five o’clock sharp. You coming to the pub, Mikey? My mother didn’t like him at all. She used to call up the stairs. Mikey, it’s that bloody George Best again! We would walk to the pub and get there just as it opened and you can imagine me walking in with George Best always caused quite a stir.”

”I bet,” I said, smiling.

”We would order two beers and I’ll say this for him, I can’t fault his generosity. Never let me pay for my own pint, he did. He’d take one sip and he’d spot a young lass across the pub and he’d say you finish that for me, Mikey lad. I’d say no, not again! He’d leave me there with the two pints while he went off shagging.”

”Oh, that sounds like George Best,” I said, strangely relieved to be on safe ground.

”Next Monday, same thing would happen. I’d say, George, no, I’m not going to the pub with you because you’ll run off with the first piece of skirt you see and he swore blind he wouldn’t. But he did. He loved shagging, you see?”

”Yeah,” I said, shuffling my cards, looking for a new topic. ”What’s the best away stadium you’ve been to?”

Mikey stretched out his finger and made a ’come closer’ gesture. I leaned towards him. He said, ”We used to go fishing.”

”Who?”

”Sunday morning, knock on the door. Mikey, it’s that bloody George Best again. What does he want, I’d yell down the stairs. He wants to go fishing. Well, now, you don’t say no to George Best when he says he wants to go fishing. But he never brought any worms. Oh, I’ve forgot again, he’d say, and he’d slap his face and I’d say that’s no trouble you can share mine. I got myself a bigger bucket, see, because I knew he’d forget, and mother was not keen because they got out into the kitchen.”

Half my squad looked revolted. ”Er,” I said. ”Best away day? I bet the pies were good back then.”

”We went down to the water together, me and George, and I’ll tell you what I told him. Old fisherman’s trick, George. You tell a secret to a worm and you’ll catch a fish every time. Go on, try it. But he never did. He’d always spot a likely lass on a bicycle or floating past on a barge or fresh out from church, and he’d go, you know...”

”Shagging?” I said.

”He loved shagging. So I’d be there with two rods and the biggest bucket of worms you ever saw, and I’d tell them my secrets. They never caught me, you know.”

”Who?” I said, eyes popping out.

”I had my fill in those days, heh heh.” The chuckles were deeply concerning, but then he made a disgusted tongue-clicking noise. ”Of course, these days, it’s all done on computers.”

I clamped my mouth shut while I tried to work out what I was supposed to do next. I unfolded and folded the half-and-half scarf before saying, ”Mikey, maybe you could tell us what it would mean to you if Chester got to Wembley Stadium for the first time?”

”Chester?” he said, eyebrows shooting up. ”Fuck Chester.”

His words landed like a bomb. My jaw dropped open, but I managed to say, ”Excuse - ”

”Tinpot little nothing club!” He shot to his feet and tore off the flat cap, the vest, the cardigan, the tie, the shirt, revealing that he was wearing a Plymouth Argyle home kit. ”Up the Greens!” he yelled, while giving me V signs on both hands. He hopped along the aisle towards the exit, yelling, ”If you don’t fucking bounce, you’re a red! If you don’t fucking bounce you’re a red!”

He slammed the door behind him. I got to my feet, and slowly lifted something from the desk. The guy’s moustache. I stared at it for a while, dropped it, and went to the tactics board. ”Let’s try this again. It’s one hundred by one hundred, making a thousand squares.”

The first - and biggest - laugh came from Sticky. He howled. More followed. Fitzroy, Hamish, Peter. Sandra was on her feet, doubled up, tears streaming down her face.

When Joel Reid cracked, I did, too. It was a shame Emma had missed the event but there was no way I could have kept a straight face if she had been around.

Dylan and Mikey returned. The latter was walking normally and his face was bright red. I gestured that he should come to the front with me.

When the laughter died down a little, I put my arm around him. ”Lads, this is Michael Fields, a local actor. Can we give him a noisy round of applause because what he just did took balls.”

He got his ovation, relief etched on his face. He said, ”Sorry,” though I don’t know to whom.

”He’s a Plymouth fan but he’s gonna join us for dinner. Be nice, yeah? Mikey, if you don’t bounce you’re a red. You didn’t sing that one in rehearsal. Who are the reds around here?”

”Exeter City,” he said, a name which was so far off our radars we all laughed some more.

Zach had joined in with the merriment, but he stood up and pointed at the tactics board. ”Boss, please tell us that’s a joke, too.”

”It is,” I said, and there was another wave of amusement, served with lashings of relief. ”Listen,” I said, holding up my hands. ”We’re gonna go for the win tomorrow, course we are. We’re gonna take it seriously, yes we are. But we don’t focus on the stakes and what we get at the end, we focus on the journey. The process. This is Chester, and that means we have fun. The end of that game on Saturday made me realise I was getting a bit uptight, a bit sanctimonious, if that’s the right word. So... we reset. Get back to basics.”

Wibbers, grinning hard, said, ”So what’s the real plan?”

I put my arm around Mikey and squeezed. ”We’re gonna do what these bouncy boys do, but better. All right? Enjoy your dinner.”

***

Inviting Mikey to eat with us proved to be a masterstroke, as the lads begged him to repeat sections of his speech. Every now and then I’d hear someone cut into a piece of meat and say, ’I’ll do a little test nibble...’ or when someone would get up to leave the table, he would be asked, ’You off shagging?’

Over on the next table, Emma and Briggy were doing a minor prank of their own. It went like this: Emma had a glass with a bit of red wine in it. Briggy offered to fill it up, at which point Ems put her hand over the rim. Briggy’s eyes would widen, and the guys at the table would all freeze, eyes locked on the unfilled glass. Is Emma... preggers? A few minutes later, Emma would go to a different table, ostensibly to mingle, and do it all over again.

I was having my own fun, re-reading the history of Plymouth Argyle as told across various sources. ”Hey, Wibbers.”

”Yes, boss?”

”Did you ever wonder why Plymouth Argyle are called Argyle?”

”Not ever, no.”

”Your long wait for an answer is over. It was the name of a street near where the club was founded.”

Hamish was shoving cuts of meat inside potato skins, which is how they eat everything north of the border. He paused in his endeavours. ”Near? Not the street itself?”

”Yep. The club was founded on... let me check... Bedford Street.”

”Sorry, boss, but is this another prank?”

”No, look,” I said, holding my phone up. ”They chose the name Argyle because it sounded posh. For about six years they were Argyle F.C. and they added the Plymouth later.”

”Why would you want a posh football club?”

”It was the 1880s,” I said. ”People were into the idea of social climbing. That’s not much of a thing any more, is it? People want to be rich and famous, not posh. Some things haven’t changed much, though. I’ve got the first ever rules of football as played in Plymouth. Rule number one: no outsiders. 130 years later, Plymouth voted for Brexit. No surprise there.” I shook my head. Brexit was stopping me from signing loads of Swedish wonderkids and Norwegian goalies. ”To be fair, I’m not sure these rules are totally serious. Rule three, also known as the Wibbers Rule, is no leaving the game in a sulk. Some of the wording seems to me intentionally funny. Check this one out. Rule nine: no leaving the game unless called away for particular matters.”

”The Max Best Rule,” said Wibbers, who enjoyed that one far too much.

I narrowed my eyes before indulging him with a cackle. I tapped my phone’s screen. ”It’s great, this website. It’s all about the history of football in Plymouth. It’s got a really funny article about a guy’s first ever go at playing footy. It was just like my first time in the school playground. Like, what do you do? Where do you run? He had a nightmare of a time. It’s so funny how he writes. It’s old-fashioned but modern, somehow. Listen to how he phrases it. I went into the game with a ’do or die’ feeling, with the result that just afterwards I got a terrific hack on my shin which lamed me for several weeks.”

”Lamed me,” laughed Wibbers.

”Like a hoss,” said Hamish.

”Soon after this I was put in goal, and here I thought I should distinguish myself. However, stopping the ball was not as easy as it looked, and after missing three goals in as many minutes, I was ignominiously dismissed from my new post.”

Wibbers was enjoying the tale. ”They put him in goal coz he was shit! We used to do that in school ’an ’all!”

”By this time, I had given up all hope of ever being able to play football, when suddenly the ball rolled up to my feet. No one was near and hope was rekindled in my troubled breast as I dribbled it on. My courage, however, soon evaporated on seeing the enemy’s back rushing at me, and I made a wild kick at the ball in order to get rid of it, but by a happy chance I kicked it right in front of the enemy’s goal, so that one of our men easily put it through.”

”Yes!” said Hamish, fist clenched. ”Get in!”

I laughed and finished. ”There was great excitement and I came in for all the glory, which compensated for all my former mistakes. Of course I did not think it worth while to inform anyone that the matter was purely an accident.”

”Go on, lad!” cried Wibbers. He smiled as he thought about the story. ”What’s a back?”

”Defender, I think.”

”Do you think that one assist was enough to make him like footy?”

”Think so. He wrote it as an old man and at the end of the article he says ’I’d probably be as good now as I was in that first game’. So he liked it enough to try again, right?”

”When was that written?”

”The website says 1884, but it might mean that it was about those days, not written in those days. I mean, it’s ancient anyway.”

Wibbers had briefly forgotten his plate. ”But it’s the same as now. Put the shit kid in goal. Hang on, he’s too shit. Oh, wait, he’s done a great pass, what a hero. That could be any kids game in the country.”

”Yeah,” I said, happy. ”There’s a French phrase. They say it all pompous, of course, but it’s something like, the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Hamish frowned. ”Is that true?”

”I don’t know,” I said, stabbing a carrot. ”I’m 26. Hey, quiz time. Winner gets to play in the Champions League next season. Here’s a wild section from Argyle’s Wikipedia page. 1963. The Pilgrims - that’s Plymouth Argyle, obvs - were invited to play a game as a warm-up to an international cycle race.”

”What?” said Hamish. ”I feel like I’m taking crazy pills today. Can you say that again?”

”Plymouth were the warm-up to a cycle race.” I left a beat. ”In Poland.”

”What?” said Hamish, louder.

”Yeah Poland was part of the Soviet Union and it was the Cold War so I’m not sure how that worked but that’s not even the crazy bit. Guess what the attendance was.”

Hamish scratched his ear. ”If I guess right I can play in the Champions League?”

”I’m gonna say yes because you’ll never get it.”

”Were Plymouth the Real Madrid of the 60s?”

”No. They have never been in the top tier, as far as I know. They only played in Wembley stadium for the first time in the 90s.”

Wibbers said, ”It’s a cycle race, in Poland, and it’s Plymouth. You’re asking the question like it should be a low number. I’m gonna go high. 20,000.”

”Hamish?” I said.

He shrugged. ”20,000... and one.”

”You’re closer but you’re so far off you don’t win anything. One hundred thousand.”

Wibbers’ face twisted up. ”Plymouth have played in front of bigger crowds than... Man United and Liverpool?”

”I don’t know about that,” I said. ”Last I heard, United’s biggest home attendance was at Man City’s ground.”

”What?” said Hamish, for the one hundred thousandth time.

”True story,” I said, getting up and slapping him on the back. I went round the table and rested my hand on Wibbers’ shoulder. ”Tomorrow, we’re gonna create some history of our own. In a hundred years from now, someone will write - I suppose I should say carve since we’ll have been bombed back to the stone age by then - yea and on the first day did Wibbers march down to the south coast, but not on his trusty steed Sealbiscuit because the range wasn’t sufficient, and on the second day did Wibbers arrive in the Theatre of Greens - yes, that’s the real nickname, Hamish - and Wibbers did so boldly smite the Janners.”

Wibbers was grinning too hard to speak, so Hamish asked the question. ”What’s a Janner?”

”Someone from Plymouth.”

”I’m learning a lot today and I don’t like it.”

***

Tuesday, February 23

Since I was going to be starting the match, my co-manager slipped into the role as primus inter pares, a fancy way of saying ’bossest among bosses’. Sandra led us through our morning activations, keeping a special eye on the players who had put in so much effort on Saturday. Cole, Adam, Peter, Andrew, Bark, and Gabby would all be on the bench tonight, unless they showed signs of excessive fatigue.

They weren’t completely fresh, but their Condition scores were all over 90%. More than enough to feature as a sub if needed.

The morning’s warm-ups complete, we had a team walk around the marina, lunch, and because we had access to a large, private space, Sandra gave our final team talk in the Hayward Room. I sat with the other players.

”All right,” she said. ”Settle down, please.”

She was still for a while, before pushing some hair behind her right ear.

”My favourite movie is Batgirl. What, you’ve never seen it? No-one has - after spending 90 million dollars making it, Warner Brothers decided not to release it. But I just love unfinished productions. Another example would be Max’s Chester Zoo series.”

”Oh my God,” I said, shooting to my feet amidst much sniggering. ”Listen, it’s hard to shoot adverts from Chester Zoo when I’m in the fucking north pole! And half the animals were asleep when I turned up. They’ve got shit attitudes, I can tell you. They’re never gonna make it in showbusiness.” I sat back down.

Sandra smiled and went to the tactics board. ”Plymouth Argyle. Named after a character in the 1988 action adventure, Die Hard.”

”Holy shit,” I complained, but I smiled. She had finally watched it!

”Manager is Harry Wiseman. Former Man United player. I never saw much in him but I can’t say I was paying close attention to the team in red. Max?”

I got up and kneeled on my chair while facing the squad. ”He was decent. Short, not fast, tidy on the ball. Sort of a Spanish-type midfielder, right? To make it at United, he needed one more string to his bow, like a long shot or being good at set pieces or whatever. He was always out on loan so he got to work with lots of different managers, and it seems like he was paying attention because he’s pretty decent.”

Wiseman’s coaching profile had lots of 12s and 13s out of 20. A good all-rounder, but I felt he could be summed up in two numbers. His Tactics score was 11, slightly underwhelming even at League One level, but his Man Management was 14.

”Right,” said Sandra, nudging a couple of magnets around. ”He favours 3-4-3, with two of the front three often playing as central attacking midfielders. They get lots of bodies around the oppo and press high and hard. If we’re struggling with that, we’ve got Peter on the bench, but our analysis is that we will cope with it. Max’s assessment is that they have the second-best starting eleven in the division, just a fraction behind Portsmouth, just a little better than Bolton.”

”Bolton?” said Hamish, surprised.

Sandra nodded. ”It’s an analysis of the best eleven players, not whether they are well-coached and well-organised.” Hamish nodded that he understood. Bolton were ninth, having been sent into an early tailspin by a bench-boosted Chester FC. Some good work there by me, in retrospect. Sandra continued. ”Wiseman has Plymouth organised and motivated and they don’t have any particular weaknesses. That said, they don’t have any stand-out players, either. They lost them when they came down from the Championship.”

Plymouth, if they used their best players, would be somewhere close to CA 111. Sandra pushed the green magnets off and spread out some blue ones.

”We’re doing 3-4-3, too, with two main points of flexibility.”

She tapped the magnets, while I mentally added the CAs of the players she was naming.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

”Swanny.” 108.

”Christian, Fitz, Zach.” 109, 106, 108. ”Fitz, we want you to mark the centre forward. He’s a good target man but he isn’t the most mobile. Stick with him, win duels, but let Christian and Zach mop up the second balls, yeah? If one bounces off him, you don’t chase it. Hold your position and the others are gonna work around you.”

Fitz nodded. We had told him this before and worked on it in training, but it was good to remind everyone what the plan was. It would also have made sense to let Christian mark the big lump of a striker, but I wanted our skipper (captain) doing his normal work of organising the defence, talking to everyone, and being alert.

”Left mid, Joel.” 119. ”Middle, it’s Youngster and Magnus.” 115 and 98. ”Right is Max.” I didn’t know my CA but I guessed it was in the 130 range. Training with the Norwegian women had probably given my ceiling a little kick higher, and for the next three days we would be at The Vale and it would shoot up some more. ”Max and Magnus will swap roles sometimes so we can explore different types of threat. Magnus, when you’re on the right you’re just blocking, but when you’re in the middle you can be more progressive and let Youngster drop to be an extra body against Plymouth’s attacking midfielders.”

Youngster and Magnus looked at each other and nodded.

”Forwards are Colin, Shagger - sorry, I mean Dazza - and Wibbers.” 110, 110, 105, and lots of laughs. Sandra was nailing the vibe!

The average excluding me was 108.8, but I was fully fit and raring to go. I would make a vast difference. Just for fun, I did the maths. If I was CA 130... that would take our average... to almost exactly 111. The same as Plymouth. Who had home advantage.

My stomach churned and my eyes landed on the kit bag with the half-and-half scarves.

Gulp.

***

Vans Trophy Semi-Final: Plymouth Argyle vs Chester

We went out onto the Home Park pitch to do our warm-ups. The grass felt a fraction too long. Had they let it grow to stop us fizzing passes around? Whether it was the grass or the occasion I wasn’t sure but my legs felt heavy. When I took some shots, it was like kicking one of the heavy, leather beasts they used in the early days of the sport.

Christ.

I took in my surroundings. There was one weird but attractive main stand, what they used to call a grandstand. The weirdness came from the fact that it was stretched and squashed, meaning the lower tier was too high while the roof didn’t go wide enough or out enough to cover the seats around the edges. So strange, but it was charming. The other three sides of the stadium had been merged into one low, curving tier. Combined capacity, 17,000.

I tried to calm myself by spouting facts. ”Plymouth is the biggest city in England never to have had a top-tier football club. Argyle’s first match was a four-one defeat. I am the Soccer Supremo.” Dylan and Briggy, on the pitch in case of baddies, gave me strange looks.

Back into the dressing room, final chats from Sandra as I stared at my knuckles, onto the pitch where the grass seemed to have grown even longer, and the stands had filled. A proper cauldron, this. No half and half stadium, but 90% home fans. I had my bodyguards nearby but the Janners could assault me with noise.

One last flash of a haunting image, that of an empty hospital room, and the match was underway. The roar was crushing, my boots were lined with lead, the green-and-black-shirted players so cartoonishly fast and powerful. After some head tennis and a spot of midfield pinball, the ball came to me. My opposite number, Plymouth’s number 11, a left-midfielder, rushed at me, keen to lay down an early marker. The oppo always liked to foul me early, believing (rightly) they were unlikely to get a yellow card. I could see in this prick’s eyes that this was gonna be a bad one.

I remembered the article about that guy’s first ever match. On seeing the enemy’s back, I made a wild kick at the ball in order to get rid of it...

2’

A forceful but scrappy start to the match.

Evergreen tries to play the ball towards Beckton but hits it straight into an opponent.

The ball squirts to the right, where Best will get his first touch of the game.

He looks unsure about what to do.

Bridge is steaming towards Best.

Best aims a kick downfield...

Bridge leaps, two-footed!

But Best dabs the ball through Bridge’s legs and sidesteps the appalling challenge.

Best is away!

He has some space on the wing, and he drives into it.

The nearest centre back moves across to challenge, but Best fires the ball low towards the edge of the penalty area.

Roberts is the target. He spins... but leaves the ball!

Beckton gathers and plays it first-time behind the defenders.

But he overhits the pass!

The goalkeeper collects, and the home fans breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s mad how the brain does things. One minute you’re slow, you’re shit, the grass is too long, then a guy tries to end your career and it’s like a switch has been flicked and everything’s working. Everything’s in order.

Bridge, the clown who had tried to hit me with a ’reducer’, knew that he was in for a hell of a game, and his Morale flickered downwards. It went back up - you don’t get to this level by losing your shit from one nutmeg - but it was something to note. I went over to the referee to make sure he saw the reckless way Bridge had attacked me. The ref didn’t seem to want my help, which was weird.

”1997,” I said.

The ref gave me a blank look. ”What?”

”In 1997, Smoldon v. Whitworth established the legal basis upon which I will sue you if that fuck ends my career. You have a duty of care to ensure my safety through the correct and sensible application of the Laws of the game.”

”Will you please shut up?”

”Don’t worry, ref. When I get carted off to the fucking hospital, you won’t hear from me. I mean, you’ll hear the screams of agony, but only for a few minutes. You want to shut me up? I’ll shut up when you admit you saw a two-footed tackle and let it go. I’ll shut up when you admit you’ve fucking bottled this game already.”

Magnus put his arms around me, easing me away. ”Hey, Max, easy now. Easy, there. What’s going on?”

I seethed for a few seconds before twisting some of the tension out of my neck. ”Can’t visit a guy in hospital in Chester if I’m in hospital in Plymouth.”

Magnus nodded and eyed Bridge. ”Let’s swap.”

I was too angry to think straight, so I did as he said. I went to the middle and Magnus went to the right. Magnus was our lowest-ranked guy in terms of CA - the only one not in triple figures - but he had actually been playing at the highest level, having played the UEFA Conference League group stage over in Gibraltar.

The match restarted with the goalie aiming a kick to my left. Joel Reid won the aerial duel, nodding it backwards to Christian Fierce. He played a very careful ball straight up the pitch to Youngster, who took a slightly heavy first touch and had to give it to me. I faced the right and saw Magnus backing into Bridge, holding him, keeping him from moving. It was amazing because it looked like normal football stuff but I was pretty sure it was some kind of jujitsu thing!

I was pretty sure Magnus wanted me to play the ball to his feet so he could go even harder into the hold, and I shaped like I was going to do just that. But while I did play a pass towards him, I cut out half the kinetic energy that pass would need. The ball only got halfway there, and I chased it myself.

”Go!” I screamed, as I approached the entanglement. Magnus released his grip and ran towards Plymouth’s half. I rolled the ball neatly in front of him, and he scampered away. I turned sideways to admire my pass and just as everyone’s attention was following the action, my momentum took me into Bridge. There was a satisfying crunching sound and we both fell to the turf.

”Awfully sorry about that, old bean,” I said, as I tried to peel myself off him. ”I would also like to add that I do not question your parentage.”

The guy lashed out, inexplicably, and suddenly there was chaos. Zach and Christian were pushing me away, almost every player was in a tiny rectangle on the pitch - next-level Relationism - and Peter, Dean, and Sticky were working overtime to keep our subs bench back. I vaguely noticed Sandra had her arm around Wibbers and was chatting a mile a minute.

”I’m calm,” I said, which was true, but which couldn’t be said for the 17,000 fans. They were going bonkers. Great atmosphere! I had to say I was starting to enjoy myself. I turned to the grandstand and eyed one gobby supporter. ”Shut up, Ar-jile.” Yeah, that triggered another bout of pushing and shoving as the Plymouth coaches tried to get me. ”What?” I said, a picture of innocence. ”Our free kick is it, ref?”

Wordlessly, the guy reached into his pocket, pulled out a card, and held it over my head.

Schrödinger’s Card!

”Yellow card for what?” I said, ruining a perfectly good cliffhanger.

”Get back ten yards or you’ll get another one.”

”Ooh,” I said. ”You’re hard.”

This time it was Wibbers who was pushing me away. ”Boss, don’t get sent off in a semi-final.”

”Tell that to him,” I said, with way more heat than was needed. The fuck was wrong with me? Oh, yeah. A fellow professional had tried to snap my leg into bits. That would do it.

Wibbers pushed me back some more. ”Remember rule three.”

”What?”

He patted me on the chest. ”No sulking.”

I stared at him, getting steamed up, until I burst out laughing. ”Yeah, right. All those things I said. Right.” I scanned the pitch. ”You go in the wall. You’re centre mid for a minute.”

”Aight.”

Swanny has asked for a two-man wall, just to stop the free kick taker from getting a super-easy shot at goal. Having two men there meant we could assemble a suitable defensive line and that our goalie could leave a big gap at the front post. I let Christian organise everything and prowled around. ”Swanny,” I called out. Our goalie looked at me. I pointed over to the left, telling him that if he caught the ball he should throw it to me quickly. He nodded.

The kick was finally ready to be taken. My attention was briefly drawn to our dugout, where Sandra seemed to have all our subs in a huddle. Probably giving them an earful for responding to the aggro from the other bench. Bridge himself took the kick, hitting it left-footed with no guile or grace towards the penalty spot. Fitzroy won the header - it skimmed off the top of his head and went all the way to the left of the pitch. My legs took off in that direction but angled towards the half way line. Joel Reid gave chase and was going to turn back towards our goal to let us regain our shape.

”Line! Early!” barked Swanny.

Joel obediently played the ball down the touchline, blind, and one thousand three hundred Chester fans yelped with excitement. I was first to the ball by a distance, and knocked it another twenty yards down the line. The goalie started to run out of his penalty area, which was so incredibly stupid it actually distracted me just about enough for a defender to get into position.

I switched direction, threatening to drive towards the painted D outside the penalty area, but immediately straightened my line. The move made the defender lose his balance. All he could do was throw a leg out. As I closed in on him, I used my left foot to gently chip the ball over his leg, then hurdled while checking who was coming in support. My beautiful run was ended as the defender kicked upwards, sending me flying. I crashed back down to earth, limbs everywhere, and slid about eight yards.

The pain was surprising and I was sure I must have broken something. I tried not to move, but found myself curling up into the foetal position.

I lay there while the other players got their handbags out. The pushing and shoving kicked off again, this time with even more heat. Physio Dean arrived. ”Boss, you okay?”

I opened one eye. ”Are you... an angel?”

He smiled, but it was an exasperated one. ”Stop clowning around. Where does it hurt?”

I tried to answer, but couldn’t. ”Not sure.” He did some tests on me but as he tweaked my bits, one by one, they all felt fine. ”Tell the ref I might need an ambulance,” I said.

”I won’t do that, no.”

”Oh. Go and get Bones. She’s easier to manipulate.”

He ignored me, testing my left knee. ”How’s this? How does this feel?”

I was going to make a joke but the thought that I might have a knee injury flooded me with fear. Nine months out? No, thanks. ”Um... It’s... sore.”

”I think that’s where you landed. You’re gonna have a big bruise there but let’s get you up and we’ll see if you can walk.”

I didn’t move right away, but checked the curse commentary. The defender had been booked, so I just had to decide whether I wanted to stay on the ground and let the temperature of the game cool down, or if I wanted to get the game restarted quickly because we were in the ascendency. There wasn’t a clear winner in that contest so I allowed Dean to pull me to my feet. If I stood still, there was no pain, but what would happen when I put my weight on my left knee?

I tried it. ”Yeah, that’s gonna be a dick of a bruise,” I said. ”Nothing worse, I don’t think. Unless...”

”What?”

Had it been any other player, I would have had good information to work with. Reduced Attributes. Lower Condition. An entry in the Injuries column. If there was even a hint there was a risk of an ACL injury, I would have subbed the player right off. ”I’m gonna play on.”

”Okay. Can you stop drawing aggro onto yourself?”

”Yeah, can do.” The Plymouth defender who had kung-fu kicked me came over, offering a handshake. ”Next time you come near me,” I snarled, ”you’re a dead man.” The prick scuttled back to his shitty line. Dean gave me a doleful look. ”What?” I said, innocent.

Dean sighed and reached into his equipment bag. He opened a sachet of the energy gel stuff I called ’marathon paste’ and held it near my mouth. ”Give that a little test nibble,” he said, in the voice people use to talk to cats and babies. ”There’s a good murder kitty. What a good kitty.” I shook my head, laughing, my anger and frustration at how the match was going ebbing away once more.

To punish me for being fouled, the referee ordered me to leave the pitch and await his signal to return. That meant I couldn’t take the free kick and it meant that we would be down to ten men until I returned. Which meant we couldn’t hurl bodies into the box - we had to be wary of counter-attacks.

I mentally assigned Wibbers to take the free kick and trudged to the side of the pitch. At least all my bits seemed to be working okay.

I flexed my knees, bent, twisted, while Dean watched me and while a few thousand Plymouth fans extended their sympathies.

”Best, you cheating bastard!”

”Crawl back to Manchester you fucking prick!”

”That’ll wipe the smirk off your face!”

I turned and picked one guy out. ”I’ve seen better marinas in Birmingham, mate.”

Wibbers was ready to take the free kick. He ran at the ball and hit it hard, curling it towards the far post. A defender nodded it away. The coaching part of my brain analysed what Wibbers had done. It was all fine but didn’t feel like it had generated any threat. Why was that?

Angle not extreme enough. Not enough pace. Not enough spin. Too predictable. Things we could work on.

The ref signalled that I was allowed back on the pitch. I stepped forward about two inches. The ref waved at me again.

”I’m on the pitch, you stupid twat.” The assistant referee was within earshot. ”Your mate is shit. This is a semi-final, you know.”

”If it’s a semi-final, why are you standing over here doing nothing?”

”Next-level tactics. If I told you, you wouldn’t understand it.”

The guy snorted and jogged away.

I checked the tactics screen. Wibbers was still in centre mid, so I was free to wander. I decided I wanted to be a sweeper for a bit. When I arrived in my zone, standing behind the centre backs, Christian Fierce and Zach Green exchanged a look but didn’t say anything.

Plymouth were a good team and they knew how to work the ball around. They had the same kind of control as Mansfield but with more threat from all sides of the pitch. Their right-midfielder exchanged passes with the nearest CAM and looked up to see who was in the penalty area - only to find himself hurtling towards the advertising boards on that side of the pitch. To his credit, he got to his feet quickly and ran at me. I had stayed facing him and when he arrived I dragged the ball back once, twice, would I go for three? No! When he lost patience and kicked out at me, I backheeled the ball through some bodies, down the line to Joel Reid.

A very surprised Joel - we had barely trained together and were still learning how best to combine - sorted his feet out, leaned back, and swept a pass to Wibbers. His first touch seemed heavy - until you realised he had bounced the ball in such a way as to wrong-foot an opposition midfielder. Wibbers and the guy wrestled while sprinting and the Janner must have been surprised to lose that battle to an eighteen-year-old. Wibbers would be nineteen soon, but that was probably not top of his mind as he lined up a booming left-footed strike. A defender threw himself at the ball, so Wibbers took a leaf out of Joel’s book, leaning back to chip a ball over the defenders. Dazza was there, competing with a centre back. Yet another wrestling sprint ensued, and the Australian had been losing those battles against rugged veterans all season.

Which was why he had been training hard against a very generous Zach Green.

Which was why Dazza won the contest... and got a shot away.

The goalie threw himself to his right and made a great two-handed save.

But Colin Beckton had made almost an entire career out of responding fastest to rebounds; he slammed the loose ball into the net.

One-nil.

Let’s fucking go!

Half our team celebrated behind the goal, but I was close enough to the Chester fans to run that way and pump my fist. I wanted to go to the nearest corner flag and kick the shit out of it, but I would have got another yellow card.

Halfway there.

Half in the final, and half the half to go.

While I prowled around, I noticed Sandra was once again grabbing people and pumping them up. I idly wondered what she was saying, but brought up the tactics screens and wondered whether it was time to trigger any one-time-per match perks. Seal It Up, maybe, to make sure we didn’t concede a goal after scoring, which was always maddening.

Nah. I was on the pitch, wasn’t I? I could drop into the DM slot for a minute. I left Magnus on the right, with Wibbers next to Youngster in the CM slots.

It looks like Plymouth are adopting a more attacking approach.

My head snapped towards Harry Wiseman. He was stretching as high as he could, waving his arms. He was shuffling his team around in an interesting way, clearly intending to attack down our right. One of Plymouth’s CAMs had been told to get to the left wing, where he would be behind Magnus, who was busy with Bridge. The striker and the other CAM moved across towards that part of the pitch.

Interesting. Quite a bold move.

I reacted instantly, moving Wibbers to the wide left slot, Joel to the CM position, Youngster to the right where he could support Magnus, and I drifted out to that side, too.

While I was at it, I moved Dazza and Colin a little to the left. If I got the ball, I would fire a howitzer of a pass in their direction, and if Wibbers got up to support them in time we could have a three-against-three break.

It took a few minutes for the perfect scenario to develop, but develop it did. Magnus and Bridge grappled with each other - there would be only one winner in that scenario - and Bridge pushed the ball towards a centre back who had come over to help him out. Perfect! He was out of position.

The guy clipped a pass to the seemingly-unmarked left winger, but I sprinted at him like I was going to launch a two-footed kung-fu kick right in the face, and his technique let him down slightly. I whacked the ball against his shins and won a throw-in. The ball rebounded against the advertising board beautifully, almost right into my path. I rushed to the line and threw it towards Zach, then sprinted to him to get it back.

He understood my intention, though, and decided to skip a step and do it himself. He attempted a 60-yard field goal, quite happy to see it drift left.

At first I was pissed because I had been so patient waiting for the opportunity and we wouldn’t get it again, but he was right to hit it early when one of the defenders was out of his slot. Dazza won the header, Colin controlled the ball with his back to goal, being manhandled by a defender. Colin fell - fuck’s sake, ref! - but not before he clipped the ball behind him... into the path of Wibbers!

The little genius had made the ground from midfield and copied my ’dabbing the ball over an outstretched leg’ move as he thundered into the penalty area. History repeating! Twice, in fact, because the fucking defender chopped him down.

Penalty kick!

Yellow card!

But it wasn’t the same defender. No red card. Fuck!

I had just been jogging across the halfway line when it happened. I slowed to a walk, knowing the shit ref would take fucking eons to get himself sorted. Colin Beckton had the ball in his hands as though he would take the penalty, and Dazza was standing over the spot to protect it from shitty Plymouth players who would try to scuff the pitch up to make it harder to score.

When things had calmed a little, Colin handed me the ball.

I placed it on the spot and took a couple of steps back. The goalie was jumping around, thrusting his arms out like a backing dancer. The Plymouth fans behind the goal were yelling, jeering, flicking Vs at me. The ref was being his usual incompetent look-at-me waste of space.

I tuned it all out. All that mattered was the process. I would approach the ball, send the goalie the wrong way, pass the ball to the other side...

And we would be in the final. Wembley Stadium, here we come. A million pounds for the club.

The half and half scarves would become the most sought-after items in Chester, but one would be reserved for Mr. Price. I would be marching through the hospital’s doors as soon as visitors were allowed in. Would stride through the corridors - no, I would strut - and barge into his room and hold the scarf aloft.

Peep! Peep!

The ref was ready and wanted me to hurry up.

I took another half step back and began my process. Approach, pause, shoulder drop to the left, look to the right, speed up, slow down, and roll the ball.

Send the keeper the wrong way.

Score.

Celebrate.

I had shot to the left this time, so I started the process of celebrating to the left. It was professional, after all. If there was a rebound, you wanted to be going the right direction. The penalty taker had a head-start on the other players. He was the guy most likely to get to a rebound first.

The fans behind the goal were going bonkers. Jumping around. Jumping for joy.

I stared, dumbstruck, as I saw that the goalie had dived the right way. He was in the foetal position, clutching the ball, and his teammates were mobbing him.

No, I thought. I sent him the wrong way. That’s what I do. I don’t miss penalties.

I walked back towards the half-way line in a kind of daze, and spent the next few minutes being beaten to headers, being second to every ball, being wiped out in a fair tackle - a rarity for this Plymouth team.

I had just about enough wherewithal to station Wibbers in central midfield so that we would have an extra body around to slow down the oppo’s attacks, and I was still scanning the Condition scores and the match ratings. We were solid, and look, at the top line of the Match Overview! Still one-nil to Chester. Nothing else mattered.

My movements got a little faster, a little more confident, but then Bridge sent over a cross that led to a scramble, that led to Christian hurling himself at a shot. The shot hit the bottom of our skipper’s foot, bounced down, looped up with crazy spin, and nestled into the back of the net.

One-all.

The noise and belief from the home fans was shattering.

Our defenders kept it together, Youngster sprinted instead of scampered, Joel got a grip on the left, Magnus continued to bully Bridge, Dazza won more duels than he lost, while Beckton looked the sharpest player on the pitch.

We got to half-time without conceding another, but I had visions of an empty hospital bed as I was jeered off the pitch.

***

People said things. Dean tried to check on my knee. Dean sent Livia to try to check on my knee. More people said different things.

The only thing I could think was: I need to get off the pitch. I was going to get a red card. I was shit. I was a bald fraud.

Sandra got everyone’s attention, and I found that Peter Bauer was sitting next to me, nudging me. ”Yes,” I said, waking up a little. ”Peter should replace me. He can break the lines.”

Sandra took a couple of steps towards me and bent down. ”Max?”

”Yes?”

”Shut the fuck up.”

”Oh.”

She straightened and walked around, eyeing everyone. ”That was good. We were on top and we had them completely on the ropes. It just goes to show what good teams will do if you give them half a sniff. We’re good at that. When teams aren’t on it, we shove goals down their throat. Bit of a taste of our own medicine, isn’t it? Fuck it, though. Shake it off.”

She went back to the tactics board and stared at it, before turning back to face us. To face me.

”Max, you’re a good player. You’re amazing when you’re angry.” She stuck her tongue out as she looked up and smiled. ”But you’re fucking unplayable when you’re happy and impish.” The word imp made me wake all the way up. ”I’m not subbing you off. We all understand that this game’s hitting you hard and you’re struggling under the weight of it. You’re half here, half in the future. I mean, you told us yourself.” She walked forwards and bent so that she was eye level with me. ”But you’re going to go back out there with a smile on your face and you’re going to put on a show. Right,” she said, getting up. ”It’s time to cheer Max up. Who has a good joke?” Youngster’s hand shot up. Sandra raised an eyebrow. ”Really?”

”Yes, miss. Why was Max upset on Valentine’s Day? Because he got a red card.”

There was a groan. Dean said, ”Why is Tottenham like a bra? They have loads of support but no cups.”

No-one laughed. Bark said, ”Well, they won that one thing.”

”Yeah that one thing,” agreed Andrew Harrison.

Christian Fierce stood and loomed in the middle of the space, prompting instant silence. He scowled. ”Why did Christian Fierce bring a rope onto the pitch?” He looked left and right but found no-one willing to answer. ”Because he was the skipper.”

I shot to my feet. ”I’m cured,” I declared. ”No more jokes, please.”

Christian’s face fell. ”That was a banger.”

”Look,” I said, in a reasonable voice. ”I should be subbed off because I’m on a yellow, I’m not playing well, and I missed a fucking penalty. That’s normal.”

”Nope,” said Sandra. ”It’s a game of two halves. You’ve had a lovely trip to Scandinavia, lovely ten-day break flirting with the Norwegian women’s team live on Instagram.”

”Wait, what?”

”Now you can do some bloody work for once. It’s a game of two halves, Best. Stop fucking scowling, start fucking smiling, and do to Plymouth what you do to us in training.” She stretched her arms wide. ”It’s only fair we get to be on the right side of it once in a fucking while!”

I looked down at the floor, biting my lip. ”Max,” called out a voice. To everyone’s surprise, it was Livia Stranton, the first Chester FC employee I had ever spoken to. The physio was looking right through me in that unnerving way of hers. Right into my unworthy soul. ”Because of you, Jackie dragged me to Chester Zoo the other day. There was a big metal cage. No animals inside, just a loaf of Warburton’s sliced.”

”What?” I said.

”There was a sign. Bread in captivity.”

I put my hands on my head and looked up. It took about five seconds before I let out a light laugh. ”Okay, I get it. Just...” I held my palms out and pushed them towards the floor. Calm, please. I looked at Sandra. ”Have you got any tactical thoughts?”

”Yeah,” she said, her head wobbling as she spoke. ”Get my best player to do his job. Give me my fucking Manager of the Year award, please.” Now that made me laugh out loud. Sandra came beside me and put her arm around me. ”Do you want to play in the middle or on the right?”

I shook my head. ”Your call.”

She looked at Peter. He said, ”Middle. They can’t cope with his press-resistance or his passing range. And Youngster can cover when Max attacks. I like Evergreen on the right, too.” He went over to the versatile Magnus, who had also been there the first day I walked into the Deva Stadium.

”Yeah,” I said. Magnus was bullying Bridge, draining his energy, winding him up. ”Yes, Magnus should stay wide. Bridge is getting exhausted and his replacement is pretty shit; Wiseman doesn’t like using him.” I went to the tactics board and touched the three magnets that represented our strikers. ”Wibbers?”

He knew what I was asking. ”I feel I’m doing more when I’m deeper.”

”Right, because you’re getting more touches, but how much threat are you generating?”

He considered it. ”More from deep, I think.”

Colin Beckton nodded. ”His late runs are hard to deal with. If you dribble while Wibbers sneaks up on them, that’s a hard thing to stop.”

I put my finger on a magnet and slid it down to a CAM slot, then adjusted the spacing on the ones representing Colin and Dazza. ”Bosh,” I said. I glanced at the clock. ”We can go back out already. Show that we mean business.”

”Hold up,” said Sandra. She gestured that I should cover my ears. I gave her a lopsided smile while I played along. She spoke softly but clearly. ”As I have told some of you already, for once, Max isn’t being a drama baby. A win today would mean a lot to a lot of people and he wants so badly to make our fans happy. But he was right when he said we need to play relaxed, play with a smile on our face, because that’s when we’re most effective. So when you’re out there, cheer him up. Tell him your shit jokes. Knowing Max, the shitter the better. Okay? We don’t need to get into scrapes with these pricks but if we do, keep Max out of it. Drag him away from the handbags and tell him about the day you met George Best, or better still, Franny Lee.”

”Who?” said Wibbers.

”Jesus Christ,” said Sandra. ”Everyone out.”

***

The second half started much as the first, with Plymouth players sprinting around like electrons at CERN, looking for something to smash into. I was expecting it, and either dodged or smashed back. But most of the time I played one-touch passes, deflected loose balls into a teammate’s path, tidied up loose ends.

Playing midfield with Youngster next to me was lots of fun. First, there was the footballing freedom. I could burst forward when the goalie was about to play a short pass to a defender, and we would briefly create a three against four high-pressing scenario. Meanwhile, Youngster would shuffle to a more central role, ready to hoover up anything that developed as a result of my decisions.

There was also his growing technical competence. It wasn’t the same as when I sarcastically bounced passes with Wibbers, Pascal, or Duggers, but my fellow Manc was getting much, much better, and he was letting his sly intelligence come to the fore.

I was the player the oppo most feared, so when I exchanged a few passes with Youngster and then rushed to his left to take a pass, one I clearly intended to whack accurately up the pitch, the other team rushed to block both his pass and mine. So he simply rolled the ball backwards to himself and dribbled towards goal. Cue: chaos.

It was great playing in front of Christian and Zach, too, as I had done so many times. They were basically Championship quality already and I trusted them a lot. Fitzroy was decent, too, but I didn’t know him all that well. He had quietly got on with this chance I had given him and he had never let me down. Still, he had been at the club for about seven months and we still had probably exchanged fewer than a hundred passes in real matches.

I had a much more instant connection with Joel Reid, but I loved playing with quality players. Joel knew the game, knew his business, and I knew what he could do. He seemed to be surprised that I could actually do all the things he had seen me do in videos. It was like he thought all those clips of me doing mad skills, mad dribbles, mad passes, were deep fakes. A few times, cool moves fizzled out because he didn’t play a pass that I expected. ”Mate!” I would cry out. ”Soz,” he would say. Then I’d see him game out the next few steps in the move and think, fuck, why didn’t I pass?

That would come.

My connection with Wibbers was nigh-on perfect, and I loved aiming through-balls at Colin Beckton. But the guy I had the best relationship with was Magnus. We had played alongside each other so often, we trusted each other completely. In the summer I would need to choose two Chester players to join me at Saltney Town for our Champions League qualifiers. Magnus was low in terms of CA, but sky-high in terms of reliability, versatility, and fucking rock-hard determination.

Right now he seemed determined to wear Bridge down to a nub. I couldn’t remember seeing a pair of players grapple with each other so often outside a penalty box at corner kicks. Bridge’s Condition was being eroded faster and faster. When it dipped below 70% after 60 minutes - wild for a non-injured, non-youth-team player, I jogged over to Magnus.

”Mate,” I said, pulling him to one side. ”Much more and he’s going to break.”

He blinked. ”I wouldn’t want that.”

”He’s a dick, but yeah. Anyway, you’ve taken him out of the game; he’s toast. Actually, you know what? Let’s swap. I’ll do a few minutes of mystery winger.”

”Cool.”

We swapped and I used the screens to make myself the team’s playmaker. The ball came to me again and again. I dribbled, did tricks, did rarely-seen rabona dragbacks. You remember the rabona? That’s where you wrap one leg around the other when you’re kicking the ball. I did it to move the ball away from Bridge, and the crowd found it fucking infuriating. But when he lost his patience and dived at me, I skipped past him, waving my hands like I was holding up a red rag to a bull. Olé!

The third time I got past him, I headed towards Plymouth’s goal but backwards, dragging the ball six inches at a time, laughing, and when Bridge clattered me and got a yellow card, I pranced around celebrating in the old-fashioned way, hands clasped together over my head.

I think the linesman had told the referee what I had said about him, because the prick was even more humourless than in the first half. ”Cut it out, Best.”

That got my hackles up, but just as I was inhaling to give the ref a piece of my mind, I found a gigantic Australian brute bodying me away from the scene. ”Hey, boss,” he said, ”did I ever tell ya ’bout the time I met Tim Cahill? He used to knock on my door. Darren, let’s go shaggin’, he’d say. I’d go, fuck me, not again. I’m still sore from last time.”

I eyed him, but then stopped resisting and his push became a hug. I slapped him on the back. ”You came up with that story way too easily, mate.”

”Story?” he said, confused.

I laughed and pointed to the penalty area. ”Hit the spot, Shagger.”

He walked off, but he rolled his sleeves up, brushed both hands through his flowing hair, and gave me a cheeky smile as he fell into a trot.

The Free Hit button was in the corner of my vision. Pressing it would give us a plus ten percent chance for a dead ball situation (free kick, corner) to lead to a goal. Was this the use case? As good as my crossing was, and even though we had guys who were a menace in these situations - Dazza, Christian, Zach, maybe Fitz - scoring from a free kick this far out and at this angle was a low-probability event. I should have used the perk on my penalty, I mused, but I had been too arrogant.

As I started to get depressed, I looked up and saw Dazza kissing his bicep. I laughed and focused on sending in the best possible cross.

I took a few steps back, got a snarly face on, and fucking whipped it like I was a cruel dominatrix.

The ball slashed through the air, rushing at a nightmarish angle for the defenders, but too far out for the goalie to come and slap it away. Thrillingly, the ball went exactly where I wanted - right onto Dazza’s beautiful forehead, as pristine as an Aussie beach inhabited only by deadly scorpions, killer crabs, and salties.

He boofed it perfectly towards the top-right corner... where it was saved.

Fantastic agility from the goalie. That prick’s match rating hit 10.

Christ, I thought. My shit penalty turned him into a super keeper. Super keepers saved everything you threw at them. Super keepers were Soccer Supremo’s only real way to stop half-decent players crushing the game. They kept the gameplay somewhat realistic but were also absolutely fucking maddening. More computer monitors had been rage-smashed because of super keepers than any other single cause, citation not needed.

I walked back to midfield, thinking about the rules of the tournament. There would be no extra time in the semi-final. If the scores were level at full time, this would go straight to penalties. Who would take our pens? Colin would score. Wibbers would score. Dazza had the temperament but not the technique. I gestured towards Sandra and she seemed to understand where my mind was going - she sent Gabby and Peter to warm up.

Two more dead certs. Colin, Wibbers, Gabby, Peter. That was a very solid four.

Who else? Joel Reid? Honestly, he would probably score, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. Adam Summerhays? Again, he had the technique but did I want to put an eighteen-year-old in the situation where our first ever visit to Wembley was on his shoulders?

No.

I would have to do it.

I found myself tensing up and instead of obliterating Bridge, as he deserved, I played conservatively for ten minutes. Short passes. Simple one-touch layoffs. My match rating rose by one point, to 7. (The curse hated players who missed penalties.) A few more minutes of that brought me up to 8.

My team mates knew something was wrong, though.

In a break, Youngster jogged over and informed me that he wouldn’t buy anything made of velcro because it was a total rip-off.

Magnus told me he and his partner had watched three movies back-to-back, which he enjoyed because he was the one facing the TV.

Sandra urgently waved me over and when I got there, she said, ”Max, you remember how I used to be a teacher? I never told you this but there was a kidnapping, once. It took me ages to wake her up.”

The barrage of jokes helped. I felt myself getting cheeky again.

Fitz demolished Plymouth’s striker and sent the ball in my direction. Bridge competed with me but Magnus had worn him out. I rolled my foot over the ball, turning my body to face the other way as I did it. It reminded me of how a little Brazilian shit called Breno had stolen one of my moves. The little fuck was creating an entire career based on the virality of a move I had created!

As revenge on both Bridge and Breno, I did about sixteen moves in six seconds, nudging the ball left and right, throwing shapes, throwing my leg over the ball, threatening to do a rabona, threatening to sprint down the line.

When Bridge finally got support, I disdainfully aimed a kick back towards Swanny in goal, but in fact I clipped the ball with the last possible part of my foot, spinning it sideways to Magnus, who rolled it to Youngster, and away we went.

Ah, but hold up. After my performance, both Bridge and his mate clattered into me.

Now, getting clattered is part of the game. If you’re a creative player, you get clattered at more than twice the rate. And if you’re going to swan around being annoying, you can’t complain about how often you get smashed.

But fuck me, was it tedious seeing guys on a yellow card clobber me with impunity. I stayed on the turf and, let’s be honest, I broke rule three; I sulked. The Plymouth fans howled with displeasure when they saw me on my back again. I wondered if Mikey was in the stadium somewhere, booing me, throwing obscenities at me.

The referee came over and said things to me. I blanked him. Just stared ahead like the veteran of a horrible war.

”Come on, boss,” said Zach, holding his hand out to lift me up. I didn’t take it.

Smash, smash, smash, I thought. What was the fucking point?

Hands tucked into my armpits and lifted me up, effortlessly. Magnus.

I bent over, felt my knee, felt my shins.

Saturday was Wycombe away. More of the same. Fuck League One, fuck the Vans Trophy, fuck English referees. I pulled my shirt over my face. What if I went to play in Germany? I could play alongside Pascal with referees who were vaguely competent.

Or I could do what Old Nick wanted and stick to managing. It was a shit sport, anyway. Stay on the sidelines, let other people take the hits.

The referee was trying to talk to me again. I turned away from him. Too many bruises, man. Too much pain. Too many days where I would be hobbling around.

Fuck. All. This. Bullshit.

I took a few steps towards our dugout, but stopped when I saw that our subs were ready to come on.

Peter and Gabby plus Colin and Wibbers.

We needed one more.

I put my hands on my hips and looked straight up. When I came back from the stars, I saw that Dazza and Fitz were grabbing water bottles and being slapped on the back by our subs, while Peter was going into our back three and Gabby was prowling around Plymouth’s half. The Brazilian looked fucking menacing. In a couple of years he’d be a Premier League killer.

That got me ambling forward. Amazingly, Harry Wiseman didn’t replace Bridge. I shook my head. Wiseman must have thought that Bridge was doing a good job of containing me.

The thought riled me up, but not for long. Too many bruises. Too much pain. I stopped. Bent over. If I’d been a cat, I’d have licked my wounds.

The match got back underway. People ran around and did things, all utterly futile. We were just waiting for penalty kicks now. Who had the most killers?

I had four. I didn’t fancy Wiseman’s choices much.

Peter Bauer got on the ball. He dribbled past the lumbering striker, now being marked by Christian, and passed to Youngster.

Youngster gave it back to Peter.

He lined up a massive pass to me, but I was stationary. I spread my arms wide. The fuck are you thinking?

Peter dabbed the ball onto his other foot as he did a 180 and passed to Christian. He rolled it to Zach, who was in acres of space. Acres.

”Max!” he cried out. On auto-pilot, I took a few steps towards him, in case he passed to me, which would have been moronic as fuck. Couldn’t he see I didn’t want the fucking thing? ”Max! One hundred dash one!”

I froze. What?

”One hundred dash one, hut hut hut!”

Zach, now being pressured, cocked his leg back.

All at once, I understood. I turned to my left, bent my knees, head down, and ran for my life. I sprinted myself upright, pumping my arms like Michael Johnson in the 400 metres. I left Bridge for dead and saw the ball come into view. Zach had pinged it the right distance, but had hooked it to the left, giving one of the centre backs the chance to get it.

I went ”aaaaaargh!” as I put everything into the next ten metres. The ball was slightly too high to do much with, but I flicked out my left boot and booped it past the defender. I’m not sure if he tried to take me out but one second he was coming right at me, the next I was past him and somehow still motoring.

The ball bounced again, this time in the penalty area, and I had it on my right. Why not smack a shot?

Because a defender was sliding in front of me.

I tapped the ball to the left, and in that split-second saw my options. Colin, as ever, was rushing towards the far post. A defender was tracking him, though. Gabby was thundering forward, hand pointing down, demanding I pass. Behind me, Wibbers was sprinting. If the keeper came off his line, I could backheel the ball to Wibbers; he would chip it into the empty net for sure.

The goalie twitched but didn’t come out.

I shaped to roll the ball into Gabby’s path, waiting for the right moment, waiting, and then Gabby was beyond me, and so was the player tracking him.

I was free, with the ball on my left foot! Fifteen yards from goal, the goalie stuck in the middle. Not as good as a penalty kick, but one of the best chances you’ll ever get in the dying minutes of a high-stakes match.

Left or right?

I had struck my penno to the left, so I would go right with this one.

I hit the ball, and -

And saw stars.

***

I groaned as Dean, once again, came to check me out.

”The fuck, man?”

”Max, are you okay?”

”What happened that time?”

”Er, Bridge fouled you. Second yellow, red card, he’s off, the prick. We’ve got a penalty. But talk to me.”

I scanned my body. The pain was psychological. The loss of a gorgeous goal that had been made possible by Zach’s imagination and the hard running of my forwards. And yeah, a little bit of skill from yours truly.

Physically, I was fine. ”Dean,” I said, holding my hand out. He pulled me up into a sitting position. I looked right into his soul. ”I liked your joke. I was laughing on the inside.”

”Fuck me,” he said. ”Are you hurt or what?”

Just to be sure, I turned my head left and right, then left again for the best view of the goal. So it was a penalty, was it? ”The only person who ever hurt me,” I said, gripping his coat and pulling him a couple of inches closer, ”was George Best. He used to come to my house. My mum would call up the stairs.”

Dean shook his head, smiling. ”It’s that bloody George Best again.”

I clambered to my feet and went to get the ball. This time, I was shooting towards our fans. This time, there would be no mistake.

I placed the ball on the spot and waited for the referee to do his tedious fucking shit.

As he walked to his position, as the keeper danced around, slapping the crossbar, waving his arms to put me off, my mouth went dry. Should I do my stuttering run-up again? Or just blast the ball to one of the top corners?

Colin would score this. Why was I taking it?

I felt myself shrinking while images I had been obsessing over grew enormous.

Me walking out at Wembley, knowing my mum wasn’t watching.

Me walking into an empty hospital room.

I stared at the ball. The sport was much changed from when some lads in Plymouth had started playing the game in 1884 but they already knew enough. No sulking. No leaving the game unless called away. And the feeling of playing hadn’t changed much. Guys had always kicked the shit out of each other. Guys always went home lame. And even then, everyone knew that one magic moment wiped away all sins.

There was great excitement and I came in for all the glory, which compensated for all my former mistakes.

I put my left foot on the ball and rolled it around. I nodded to myself. I would take this penalty left-footed.

Seeing this, the Chester fans behind the goal variously threw their hands on their heads, threw themselves into each other’s arms, or swooned.

The ref blew his whistle.

I got into position to smack the ball left-footed. But should I aim to the left, or to the right? Plymouth’s goalie was watching my face looking for clues.

I had sent my first penalty left, but had aimed my most recent shot to the right.

I nodded. It made sense to aim left again.

Inhaling, I took another half-step back, moved my weight forward like a triple-jumper, and accelerated.

I planted my foot just where I wanted, just in front of the ball, eyes locked on my target.

The goalie dived to my left.

At the last nanosecond, I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to show off. I wasn’t supposed to be a perfectly balanced, two-footed player. While I had hit the odd thunderbastard with my left, I lived my life as a right-footed player. I could get in trouble with Old Nick if I started scoring game-winning penalties left-footed. No showing off, then. I wrapped my right foot behind my standing left and stabbed a rabona into the vacant side of the goal. No-one could accuse me of showing off.

The noise from the Chester faithful hit me like a wave machine, ruining my haircut. They bounced around like kids on pogo sticks but when I tried to summon the energy to clear the advertising boards and jump into their midst, I was swamped and enveloped by my players.

As they jumped on me, adding to the bruises, adding to the pain, I felt my eyes stinging. A million pounds in ticket sales. The club’s first ever trip to Wembley. The quantum kit bag unzipped, Schrödinger’s Scarf finally revealed.

Half blue, half white, all triumphant.

***

Wednesday, February 24

I had spent the night next to Emma, but as ever after a match, had found it hard to get to sleep. The ups and downs, the thrills and spills, my mistakes, action items, areas for improvement, they bounced around my head in the most aggressive way. All that allied to the pain, the endless fucking pain, and no, I didn’t sleep.

She knew the plan. I crept out early, grabbing the bag of scarves, and let Dylan and Briggy drive me to Chester. Two and a half hours each in the hotseat, helping each other with mapwork the rest of the way. As a bodyguard slash gun-for-hire, Dylan wasn’t the finished article, but both the Brig and Briggy seemed to have endless patience for him. That was good, because when I was done at the hospital we were going to get Sealbiscuit, gather all the players who hadn’t come to Plymouth, and we were going to drive back down to The Vale to start our luxury training camp. No sleep for me.

Briggy had planned the morning so efficiently that we actually got to the hospital way too early and I had an agonising hour of waiting around in a depressing crevice near a shitty drinks machine. Eventually, I snapped. ”Briggy, I could have spent this hour in bed with Emma. That is better than this. Write that down.”

She smiled. ”Yes, boss. Noted.”

I ran my hands through my hair for a while. No wonder so many football managers went bald. The job was ridiculously stressful. I had just achieved something no other manager in Chester’s history had achieved and it barely made a dent. Nothing would matter until I got into the ward and had given a fucking scarf to a sick fan. ”Urgh,” I groaned. ”Briggy, go in, judo chop a doctor, come back out wearing his or her thingy, white coat, and badge us in through all the doors.”

”Yep,” she said, sipping her coffee while scrolling through Bild on her phone. ”On it.”

Finally, visitors were allowed in. Despite wincing every time I put one foot in front of another, I practically sprinted through all the corridors, turning left and right on autopilot. I got to a far-too-familiar door and paused, making sure - for the seventy-seventh time - that I had the scarf with me.

I forced myself to take a breath, faked a big smile, and pushed the door open.

Turning to the right, as always, I saw... an empty bed.

My world collapsed.

The nightmare scenario. Honestly, it was worse than most of my nightmares. Really, what were the odds the ungrateful fuck would drop dead the same night I fulfilled my promise? I wanted to smash something. Had anyone ever rage-smashed a hospital bed before?

”Max?”

Ever so slowly, I turned my head to the left, and nearly collapsed with relief when I saw Mr. Price. I looked up at the ugly ceiling lights and spoke to them. ”What the everlasting fuck are you doing over there?”

Mr. Price had all tubes stuck in him, including that horrible one that went across the nose, but he had a kind of glow about him that hadn’t been there during my last visit. As I stepped closer he smiled. ”I’d been in that bloody bed far too long, so I asked them to move me. I was never one for sitting still.”

”No,” I said. ”No, I bet you weren’t.” I went to the chair next to his bed and sank my head into the mattress.

After a while, Mr. Price said, ”Are you okay, there?”

I tried to sit up straight. ”No, you dick.” Relief was still pouring into me. ”But I will be.” I was starting to tear up, and my eyes were stinging just as bad as the stupid bruises. Dylan went around the far side of the bed and adjusted Mr. Price’s pillow. I pinched my nose, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. I dipped into the bag. ”I got you a present.”

”Yeah, you did,” he grinned, which melted my heart. ”You cocky brat. I heard it on the radio. Boggy still doesn’t know how to describe a thingy.”

”Rabona,” I said.

Dylan knew exactly how to explain it. He let his index and middle finger dangle and flicked one behind the other. ”Like that.”

”Oh,” said Mr. Price. ”That? I can do that.” He kept a straight face for all of three seconds, before cackling. I smiled, feeling a strange sort of pride. I lifted the scarf. Dylan grabbed one end so we could stretch it out. ”Can’t read it too well,” said Mr. Price.

”Right,” I said, feeling stupid. ”One side says, Chester On Our Way to Wembley. Other side goes, Chester FC, Wembley Stadium, 2027.” I put it in his hand, which had tubes sticking out that I tried not to think about. ”You’re the only person in the world who’s got one of these. Fuck, you’re the first person in 142 years who has ever needed one.”

I saw him squeezing it while he tried to squeeze his eyes shut. He was one of that generation of men who didn’t want to cry. ”Thank you,” he said, so quietly I barely heard it. I sucked my upper lip into my mouth and held it into place with my teeth. He added, ”Thank you for everything.”

I was struggling to keep it together, so I crossed the room, eyed the empty bed, and went back.

”Listen,” I said, in my ’top football club manager’ voice. ”I’ve got a dilemma and I need your help.” I felt some emotions bubbling up and gave them a good old British squashing. ”What it is, right, you were there in Gibraltar when I got down on bended knee and held a ring out for my girlfriend. I did all the physical stuff and I said all the words.”

Dylan spoke in the softest version of his voice, which being Welsh was very soft indeed. ”She said yes, didn’t she?”

”Fine,” I conceded. ”I did all the physical stuff, all the preparations, bought the ring - as far as you know - said almost all the words. Emma said one word, total, the entire time. Are you with me?”

”Yes,” said Mr. Price, still squeezing the scarf.

I pried my attention away from his hands. ”My question is simple. Who owns that proposal? Whose proposal is it? Remember that I did almost one hundred percent of the scene.”

Mr. Price closed his eyes and a tiny smile appeared on his lips. ”I remember asking my Caroline for her hand... She didn’t choose the ring and she didn’t choose the time or the date...” His eyelids fluttered and the smile grew a little wider. ”But she inspired me, didn’t she? She was my muse. It was her proposal, all right.” He inhaled and released his breath, a horrible, shuddering, feeble thing. ”Not the same with you, is it? I didn’t propose during a match after taking the worst football team in Europe into the group stage of the Conference League.” He chuckled, and for a moment the tubes seemed to vanish, and he was just a guy in the pub, talking shit with his mates. He smiled. ”Who owns the proposal? Half and half, innit? Half and half.”